


bold

by finalizer



Series: bold [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor: Ragnarok (2017) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Post-Ragnarok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 10:19:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12604400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: Loki disappears halfway across the galaxy for some desperately needed alone time, but trouble has a way of finding him even in the darkest corners of the world.





	bold

**Author's Note:**

> completely standalone; though intentionally set in the aftermath of [ put out the flames](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12507328)

Of all the places to disappear off to — in search of recluse, solitude, a cheap drink or an even cheaper fuck — Knowhere was most certainly the most outrageous option: lawless and anarchic that made even Loki’s hair stand on edge. But there wasn’t, after all, any better place to get drunk in anonymity, and he was fine with the utter chaos thriving around him so long as he remained an observer, not an active participant.

Naturally, though, in Loki’s case, things rarely went as planned. Peace just wasn’t in his nature.

Somewhere between the third and sixth blow to the side of his head — he’d apparently angered a couple of independent contractors working for a mafia he’d tricked out of an impressive shipment not too long ago — Loki catches himself reminiscing on how he’d gotten into this predicament in the first place.

He’d come back to Asgard to fight Hela alongside his brother (it was a fragile sort of teamwork), then he’d let himself tag along to Earth, where his brother had assured him his teammates would be more than welcoming given Loki’s change of heart (they weren’t, but at least he and Thor got the chance to solidify the amends they made). Ultimately, Thor’s jovial interactions with the Avengers had gotten out of hand: namely, he seemed far too much at home, too comfortable for Loki’s liking. Not that Loki wished him ill — to put it plain and simple, he was jealous, and wanted out. Thor was his brother, but that didn’t make Thor’s friends his friends.

He’d offered a courteous goodbye, assured Thor it wasn’t forever — that he was in need of a temporary excursion — and found his way towards the nearest planet that offered his favorite exotic liquor.

That planet had been Xandar, and he’d hardly managed to avoid death: in between one temperamental ex-assassin spotting him and giving chase, and the Nova Corps recognizing him from their wanted lists for a morally dubious job he’d once done under their radar, he’d barely made it to the closest portal in once piece.

Thus, Knowhere. There were more crevices in which to hide, and more people to blend in with. He’d chosen the rowdiest pub he could spot — with flashing neons and a particularly deafening variety of electronic music blaring — and taken a seat in a relatively unsoiled booth as far away from the general ruckus as he could.

Of course, he’d gotten recognized there, too; the contractors side-eyeing him on his fourth trip to the bar counter. He’d then gotten dragged to the murky alleyway behind the pub, and was getting his head smashed in.

Apparently, these particular aliens didn’t appreciate what he’d called their mothers.

The leader of the group, massive and ugly as shit, hits him again and he stumbles back, the side of his head hitting the filthy brick wall he braces himself against. While the familiar warmth of blood seeping from somewhere beneath his hairline should be distressing, Loki finds it strangely comforting.

It’s not that he’s too drunk to fight back — he’s not (or so he tells himself) — he simply doesn’t see the point. They’ll rough him up, get bored when he doesn’t play along, and he’ll drag himself back inside for more drinks to pleasantly dull the buzz in his skull.

The attacker says something to his even uglier companions and they laugh, low and throaty. He advances on Loki, and Loki tries to smirk in that daring, unnerving way of his but falters. He registers just how badly his head is spinning, how wobbly his knees feel under his weight. Perhaps, maybe, there’s a slight chance he’d miscalculated these fuckers’ intentions.

Dying on Knowhere would suck, he thinks briefly, as the big one swings his huge, armored arm back, and goes in for the finishing blow.

Loki doesn’t wince, nor does he close his eyes: he’s drunk, but he’ll be damned if he gives some lowlives the satisfaction of seeing him cower.

The punch never falls. The attacker, however, does. Eyes bulged and glassy, his hand drops to his side and is followed by the rest of him as he topples to the ground. A small whirlwind of gravelly sand rises up from around the body, and through it Loki sees the remaining contractors dropping in near unison.

His head rings like a gun had gone off, and he turns to the entranceway of the alley to see that one had, in fact.

“I didn’t think this day could get any more annoying,” he says, when the dust settles and recognition dawns.

Valkyrie holsters her gun and looks at him in a way that’s more unsettling than the limp bodies at Loki’s feet — like he’s a bug she wants to crush with the heel of her boot, but a shiny new specimen she’s never seen before, catching her somewhere between curious and disgusted. 

“Oh, believe me, I didn’t plan on rescuing any damsels in distress today.”

Loki’s surprised when he fires back a snappy, “Nor did I expect my knight in — shabby leathers,” despite his throbbing headache. 

He glares at her some more, then flinches and squeezes his eyes shut when the trickle of blood from the scratch on his temple drips over his field of vision. He tries to rub it away, and ends up making it worse.

“What are you even doing here?” Valkyrie asks, and she’s closer now, no more than a foot away, reaching out with a filthy scrap of a rag to wipe at Loki’s face. He blinks, surprised, and attempts a step back. His back hits the wall behind him.

Her _look_ settles on disgust, with a splash of pity mixed in. 

“Quit moving,” she orders, then: “I thought you’d gone to Midgard with Thor, that you had friends there or something.”

Loki, hands still at his sides, lets her rub at his face until she’s satisfied. She’s not exactly gentle, and every movement tugs at the wound, but he’s even less willing to show weakness in front of her than he’d been in front of the contractors. That, and he’s dumbfounded at her very presence.

“Now, see,” he says, “if you hadn’t jumped ship instead of coming down to Earth with us, you’d know that — one, they’re Thor’s friends, and they hate me; and two, there’s only so much _socializing_ with them one can bear before itching for a drink.”

“No bars on Earth?”

Loki shrugs with his right arm and finds it sore from getting slammed up against the brick wall not ten minutes ago. 

He offers, dismissively, “They’ve got plenty.”

Valkyrie seems to remember the rag she’s holding then, and tosses it into the far corner of the alleyway like it’s personally offended her. 

“And? Why not just go there? You’re about, hm, two quadrants out from Midgard, bleeding profusely, were nearly killed — but I’m sure that part’s a regular occurrence for you — you’re welcome, by the way.”

Loki purses his lips together. Instinctively, he almost responds to her, lets slip the _thank you_. He snaps out of it, remembers he’s got a reputation to uphold, and blinks away from her dark eyes.

“I don’t find Earth very welcoming. Long story, I won’t bore you. And it’s not like they’ve got anything strong enough to knock me on my ass.”

Valkyrie snorts. “Hey, well, now you know where to come to get your ass handed to you. Let’s get you another drink.”

Waving her hand flippantly, she beckons for Loki to follow as she swivels around and heads back the way she arrived. He wonders briefly, as he watches her go, how the hell she’d come across him in the first place, and why she’d even bothered to intervene.

The universe, he figures, must truly hate him to send her, of all people, to his aid.

“Are you coming, princess?” he hears her call, and grits his teeth against the inexplicable smile threatening to crawl up onto his face.

She’s waiting at the intersection of the dirt-roads that the locals dare to call streets, hands on her hips. Loki hardly staggers as he approaches, one foot in front of the other in an impressively straight line. Okay, maybe he sways a little, but it’s a personal achievement nonetheless. 

He stops a safe distance away and she looks up at him, amused, for a lingering moment. He meets her eyes, as confused as she is delighted. She takes her time, entertained by the mess Loki’s made of himself, before cocking her head to the left and turning to go that way.

“Try not to fall too far behind.”

Loki pauses, and sticks his thumb out in the opposing direction. “Bar’s that way.”

Valkyrie doesn't bother sparing him a glance. “It sure is. How ‘bout we go somewhere they _don’t_ want your head on a pike, though.”

“Tough luck. There’s hardly anywhere left they don’t want me dead.”

She seems to laugh at that, another careless snort, but doesn’t slow down or wait around for him to catch up. Intrigued, and for lack of any better alternative, Loki follows.

 

/

 

“Do you happen to have a dingy apartment on every planet?” Loki asks, when he steps inside the dingy apartment Valkyrie happens to have on this planet.

It’s old fashioned, as far as the latest trends in interior decor go, but Knowhere has never been a place known for it’s progress or good taste. The electricity appears to be fried, the sole source of light seeping in through the yellowed, opaque windows being a massive neon hanging across the street, advertising something Loki couldn’t care less about. There’s an ancient looking couch in the center of it all, a minuscule counter in the middle of something resembling a kitchen; with a decently sized bed shoved up against the far wall, beneath the window. There’s a single door opposite the kitchen, loose and off its hinges, that likely leads to a shitty, germ infested bathroom. 

As far as hideaways go, it’s not awful.

Loki blinks at the splintered wood of the bathroom door a few times, and realizes he’s zoned out staring at nothing in particular.

When he turns back around, Valkyrie is right there in front of him, holding out two full glasses of something golden and alluring, sloshing around in cheap crystal.

“You, your excellency,” she drawls, amused, “look blackout drunk.”

“Takes one to know one,” Loki snaps, and plucks one of the glasses out from between her fingers. “Did the place come with the liquor?”

She scrunches her nose in a displeased grimace. “Unfortunately not. Previous tenant was nowhere to be found when I came knocking; figured I could squat here for a while — temporary living situation. I had to furnish the bar myself,” she adds, like she’d much rather have underpaid cronies doing the last part for her. “Sit down, make yourself at home. Or something.”

Loki looks past her at the horror of a couch. With his guiding philosophy of the night being _fuck it_ , he steps around her and takes a seat. It’s genuinely surprising when years of collected dust don’t rise up from the fabric as he lowers his weight onto it.

Instinctively, he reaches back to adjust his cape, before realizing he’s not wearing anything remotely flashy enough to warrant undue attention. He’d kept the button down he’d worn on Earth during his short-lived visit, and stolen a leather coat of sorts off the back of a seat in a Xandarian bar to fit in better with the scum of the galaxy.

He looks up from the glass cradled in his lap when he feels Valkyrie’s eyes him. She hasn’t moved since he sat. He meets her eyes and lifts his glass in a self-deprecatory toast and a tight smile, and downs the entire thing in one go.

She wolf-whistles, impressed and continuously amused at seemingly everything Loki does. It’s a weird feeling, he thinks, being dissected by the burning look in her eyes. Ultimately, he decides he likes it.

Valkyrie knocks back her own glass — to show off, because of course she would — and doesn’t even blink at the burn of the harsh liquor as it goes down. Loki watches the line of her throat as she swallows, and drops his gaze even lower as she turns to walk back towards the kitchen counter. 

The appreciative stare lingers as she turns her back to him, uncorking the bottle and pouring herself another glass. He lets himself watch, uninhibited. For one, he’s drunk. Two, she did, after all, invite him to her apartment in the middle of the night, however presumptive that deduction makes him. Three, he’s _very_ drunk — drunk enough to admit to himself that she’s unreasonably attractive. 

His eyes struggle to flick back to her face in time before she turns and catches him looking. Again, she snorts. 

She has her glass in one hand, and the entire bottle of the golden liquid in the other. She sets it down on the coffee table — or the two wooden crates stacked atop each other making do for a coffee table — and throws herself onto the couch at his side. A sheen of dust rises then, from the padding on the far right side.

She meets Loki’s blank stare, hazy and pleasantly vacant, and motions for his glass with her eyebrows raised. It’s an unspoken question: _Do you want more? Here, I’ll get you more. If you wanna get hammered, it’s go big or go home, huh?_

Automatically, he holds it out, and she tops him off, splashing some excess between them. It adds to the already impressive array of stains on the fabric.

Loki knocks it back, mirroring her previous movements. Drunk and desensitized as he is, he can’t help but wince at the strength of whatever it is she’s serving.

“You look like someone who’s drinking to forget,” she tells him; it’s an observant assumption.

“Maybe I am.”

“Huh,” she mutters, before sipping at her own glass, “weird. You seem like the kind of guy to have it all figured out.”

Loki tries not to flinch. Yes, the words strike a nerve, and yes, his temper flares at her flippancy. But she’s about as drunk and careless as him in the moment, and he lets it slide. 

“Let’s just say,” he says instead, “you don’t know shit about me.”

She hums into her drink and shakes her head. “I’m not saying I do. You’re actually quite the mystery, but you certainly make attempts to play everything cool — like you know what you’re doing. It’s a, uh, impressive, calculated sort of improvisation, then?”

“Impressive?” Loki echoes.

“And now I regret complimenting you, asshole.”

“Complimenting me?”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” she asks sharply, but her words are laced with the particular brand of humor she seems to reserve for making fun of Loki; the one he’s not so sure why he’s letting her get away with. “I said _impressive_ , didn’t I? If it’s true that you go through life coming up with your plans along the way, then yes, that’s a talent, the fact you’re still alive and in one piece, more or less. Though your footwork could use some practice. Your skills with a dagger are unparalleled, I’m sure, but take that away and I knock you on your ass.”

“And now you’re complimenting yourself.”

Valkyrie makes a face. “You have to admit I knocked you on your ass on Sakaar.”

“I don’t know. Can’t remember. You gave me a concussion.”

That gets a genuine grin out of her, all teeth and vicious glee. Their eyes meet and she holds his gaze for a moment, before the smile deflates and is replaced by something far colder.

“I didn’t appreciate your magic trick, though. Invasive, is what it was. Kudos to you for fighting dirty, but that was cruel.”

Loki meets her flat tone. “I’m not a nice person.”

“Good. Neither am I. But my point still stands.”

They slip into silence, minutes long, punctuated by the various sounds of rowdy chaos playing out on the streets below. There’s an explosion that goes off in the distance, and a burst of faraway maniacal laughter when Valkyrie clears her throat, and reaches for the bottle again.

She lifts it and tilts it in a mock salute, and it dangles precariously in her loosened grip. She refills Loki’s glass without bothering to ask first, and then her own. 

“Right. Out of consideration, and my — boundless goodwill, I won’t ask you about your thing with Thor, though I’d love to. I’m curious and it’s killing me. But, er, unlike you — I’m respecting privacy and whatnot.”

Loki bites at his lower lip. “I appreciate that. And not only because I’m too wasted to tell the story in order. Honestly, we’d be here all night, and well into the day, if you wanted to hear the whole story of how fucked up life in Asgard makes you.”

Valkyrie frowns. “Pff. I know well enough. And it’s not like you’re going anywhere — you’d fall on your face if you tried to stand.” She motions at the half empty bottle on the crates. “Got this baby from a club on Contraxia. It’s known for its ability to knock anyone out in minutes flat. Given our superior tolerance, I give it five hours, maybe.”

“Five hours and we’re out cold? And what — we don’t remember anything after? How utterly perfect for sob stories. I’ll go first, then. It all started the day I was born — ”

Valkyrie looks at him, blank faced and unimpressed. It’s hard, locating the thin line between what she finds amusing and what doesn’t move her in the slightest, and Loki is irrationally tempted to find it.

“No?” he quips, “You want to go first?”

She keeps her sight focused on him for another silent moment before breaking contact and looking down at the couch. She idly scratches at one of the stains with a short-clipped fingernail. 

“See, you're deflecting. I know this, tragically, because I do it too.”

She looks back up, experimental, and shrugs. It’s the most genuine emotional reaction he’s seen from her thus far. He feels an urge to dig deeper, but she continues before he can.

“ — So, why don’t you stop pretending you’re soulless, and we can tell each other loads of sentimental bullshit that neither will remember in the morning. Hmm, a spiritual cleanse, if I may. That’s supposed to be the alcohol’s job but it doesn’t seem to ever work — we have to do everything ourselves.”

There’s something beyond vicious about her, the cold detachment she so prides herself on; the all-consuming nonchalance she uses to conceal her true intentions, all the things she thinks and feels within. And there’s a pull, of sorts, a professional curiosity on Loki’s part — as a self proclaimed people person — to get beneath those layers, to peel them back and get to know her better than anyone before. Until the next day at least, when they forget and go their separate ways.

Professional curiosity — as Loki insists to himself is all there is, even as the warm blanket of liquor wraps around his mind and slows all inhibitions, and screams, loud and suggestive, that — _oh, that’s not everything, liar._

Valkyrie withdraws her attention from the couch stain and shoots a disdainful look at Loki, like he’s just another smudge dirtying the apartment. 

Loki blinks. He wants her.

She watches him watch her, lifting her glass to her lips without breaking eye contact, and twists her lips into a sly smile, tugging at her lower lip with her teeth.

After all the shit he’d been put through following his hasty departure from Midgard, it’s comforting, to say the least, that she wants him too.

“So, what’s the deal with Thor? How'd that whole mess happen?”

But first, it seems, comes the not-so-small talk.

“That depends on what you mean by _that whole mess_.”

“Don’t play coy, your highness. At first glance you hate him, but then you’re trailing after him, coming back for him, fighting with him rather than against him. Now, I’m not very good at reading people, but there seems to be a story.”

“It’s a long one,” Loki insists again, as if that’s enough to deter her from asking again.

Valkyrie waits, and when it becomes clear that he won’t speak again unless prompted, she picks up the bottle and shoves it at him, in a gesture of peace.

Loki takes it and tops off his glass in silence.

“I take it he was Odin’s favorite,” she says, and the speed at which Loki’s head snaps up startles her.

He opens his mouth like he wants to snap at her, and a thinly veiled rage simmers in his eyes. She’s pulled the right string and struck the right nerve — so far, so good.

And then he laughs, cold and grim, and while not many things scare Valkyrie, this does.

“Now, see,” he starts, jarringly clear, without a trace of a slur in his voice, “how can anybody possibly dislike the golden boy? The rightful heir? Bright and glowing like the sun in the sky, smiling and patting everyone on the back like he’s everyone’s friend. Perhaps it’s — I used to think it was a facade he put on to gain the people’s favor, and it took me time to realize he really is just that wonderful. Utter joy to be around,” he says, like the thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “You saw that, didn’t you? He could convince you of anything just by smiling at you.”

Hands in her lap, fingers wrapped around her glass, Valkyrie looks like she didn’t really expect Loki to snap and start talking. 

“There’s a certain charisma about him,” she says, “unlike you. You have as much charisma as an old boot.”

“Guess you don’t know me very well, then.”

“Guess I don’t. You don’t hate him, though — Thor. You’re tentative around each other, like you _used_ to hate him, maybe.”

Loki hums into his glass. “I’ve tried to kill him on numerous occasions. As you see, I failed, since he was alive when you met him.”

Another explosion from outside shakes the very foundations of the building they’re in, sending a fine coat of dust and plaster twirling to the ground like finely ground, filthy snow. The neon from across the street flickers erratically, going off once, then twice, then coming back on to continue its maddening buzzing.

“He fucks with my head,” Loki says, hearing his own voice like it’s coming from afar. “He can see through me. What I’m — he can see through my tricks, and when he doesn’t, when I do something stupid, he looks at me like a kicked dog — like he’s disappointed in me, like he expected better from me. I hate it, because it makes me want to be honest.”

Valkyrie huffs — it’s a sound between a laugh and an exasperated exhale, like she’s well out of her depth with this one. She lifts her glass up to her lips and knocks it back, then deposits it onto the coffee table crate. 

“The word you’re looking for, I think,” she starts, watching Loki carefully like he might snap, enunciating the words slowly as if he might misunderstand, “is _love_. You certainly have strong feelings for your brother, and you’ve spent so long mistakenly thinking it’s hatred. It’s obviously love. That’s what love does — fucks with you.”

Every ounce of humor vanishes from Loki’s expression. He goes still like she’d hit him, jaw tightening. He’s bracing himself for a fight that won’t come. Valkyrie knows, from personal experience, of course, that talking about things like these had never been one of Asgard’s strong suits, and the more one concealed their grievances and emotional weaknesses, the stronger they were made out to be. Loki, evidently, had broken that cardinal rule: driven to believe everyone hated him, he grew to hate them back, breaking something within himself along the way. Asgard hadn’t been kind to him, and he’d learned to hide behind a cruel, harsh exterior simply to survive.

Finally, when it feels like the passing minutes have trickled into an eternity, he asks: “What do you know of love?” 

The question isn’t what Valkyrie expects — he doesn’t even bother denying her assumption about Thor. There’s a crack in that exterior of his, like he knows she’s right. 

His glass, long since empty, ends up on the crate beside hers.

“I’ve loved, and lost,” she says simply. “It was a long time ago.”

“And I thought the Valkyrie weren’t permitted dalliances.”

She smiles, brutally bitter. “Not among the outside folk, at least. That was the loophole.”

Understanding dawns and Loki’s mouth clamps shut. He’s been in her head, seen everything that’d happened; he’s clever enough to put the pieces together. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, and that confounds her most.

“Are you?”

“Do you think me incapable of sorrow? Yes, I am sorry for what happened, and that I — made you relive it.”

Valkyrie taps out a hasty rhythm on the backrest of the couch, scanning over Loki’s features like he’s lying, pretending to pity her like the scheming weasel she knows he can be.

It comes as a shock, then, when he continues on looking fragile as ever, glassy and distant behind the eyes. He’s looking to get rid of everything he’s feeling, yearning for any sort of release to clear his head. It’s a concept Valkyrie’s well versed in, familiar with the ache that burns so hard it hurts.

It’s that thought, perhaps, that spurs her on. 

Rising to a kneel, she leans forward and pulls Loki into a kiss with her palms in an unkind grip around his jawline. He tenses against her, and she almost scoffs against his lips —  of course he’s beyond terrified of intimacy, of anything beyond a meaningless fling in a dark back room.

That doesn’t stop her, however, from cracking yet another joke at his expense. “Oh, stiff, are we? How long’s it been since someone’s last kissed you?”

She doesn’t drop her hands from his face and he doesn't do anything to make her.

“A while,” he says, quiet, and the attempt at snark audibly seeps into his tone, a weak attempt at gaining the upper hand. “Haven’t had much time as of late; been awfully busy.”

There’s times when keeping one’s distress to oneself can be the smarter option: when there’s no trust between parties, when one is better off alone, happier in their solitude. But when the heat is scorching, and there’s thoughts in need of silencing with actions rather than words, it leads to a simple enough conclusion. 

Valkyrie kisses him again, slower this time, and pulls away only to linger an inch apart. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“It doesn’t,” Loki echoes, like he’s trying to convince himself. 

“Just another anonymous fuck.”

“I’m sure you’re no stranger to keeping it anonymous.”

“Well — ” Valkyrie starts, and abruptly pulls away, lowering herself back down onto the couch, “ — on second thought, this is hardly anonymous. We killed your sister together.”

“You make it sound so harsh.”

“ — and blew up all of Asgard.”

“Goodness, we must share quite the bond by now.”

The tension is palpable, the heat trickling out and freezing like rivulets of water on a cold day.

Loki doesn’t waste time on awkward affairs, nor does he mince words. “Right. I should be off, then.”

He stands, swaying only slightly, and Valkyrie makes a solid attempt to keep her eyes from bulging out of her head in disbelief — after everything, he’s going to go just like that.

“After everything, you’re going to go just like that?” she asks aloud, apparently.

Loki stops, halfway to the door, rounding back on Valkyrie. He almost trips over his own feet and has to brace himself on the armrest of the couch, in alarming proximity to where she sits, bemused.

“Thank you for the drink. My sincerest apologies for being a shitty companion — though you probably expected as much from me. Anything else I’m forgetting?”

Neither of them says anything for a stretch of minutes, then, and Loki returns to making his way to the door in an almost wobbly fashion. 

It’s somewhere around the time his hand closes around the old-fashioned knob with a telltale creak, that Valkyrie shoots to her feet. It all becomes so very clear — he’s deflecting, escaping, running away and tucking everything even deeper into his subconscious. She doesn’t know why she suddenly cares, why she’s desperate to stop him from becoming an emotionally stunted ticking time bomb.

She’s across the room before Loki has the time to turn; she grabs at his left hand, twists it viciously until he spins around, and she uses the momentum to shove him up against the wall beside the door, a knee between his legs and her forearm against his chest to pin him in place.

The look he shoots down at her teeters between outraged and absolutely, downright filthy.

She counts down in her head. Men are weak, and men will lunge given the right opening.

No more than six seconds tick by and Loki’s hands shoot out, tangling in her hair, and he tugs her into a biting kiss by the back of her head. Valkyrie grins against his lips, confident in the notion that she has him wrapped around her finger, eager to do her bidding. She doesn't let him take control — drags her palms against his chest, up towards his shoulders, pushing back at the leather of his coat with the clear intention of getting it off him.

Loki complies without question, freeing one hand, then the other to peel off the coat without breaking the kiss. Sure, his mind is screaming at him to stop, but he's too far gone to listen, especially with Valkyrie’s hands wrapped around his forearms, hot and desperate through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“What was that about second thoughts?” he mutters, infuriatingly mocking even when mockery has no place in the moment. He ducks his head down and his lips ghost over her jawline, trailing across her neck. She shivers at the feeling when he whispers against her skin, and he tugs her closer almost violently with an arm around her waist. “You were just going on about second thoughts, pulling away, and now you’re chasing after me.”

Loki goes to kiss her again and is interrupted as she thrusts both arms out against his chest to shove him back against the wall. His arms fall flat against his sides and he tries not to wince at the way his head hits the plaster.

“Shut up, Loki, you’re the one running away because you might have to face me after you fuck me.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, nor does she stick around to watch Loki’s eyes widen in comical surprise. Her hands, still on him, move to the buttons of his shirt.

“Are you under the impression that I think so little of my own skill?”

“You sure do give off that impression,” she says, and looks up to meet his eyes. He’s looming over her, visibly breaking apart at the seams with each button she undoes. They’re both getting in the way of what they want, nonsensically counterproductive — bickering when they could be kissing, and then some. “Since you were, you know — _running away_.”

His shirt comes off, and Valkyrie lets herself admire the view, thrilled at the effect her fingertips on his skin have on Loki.

“I prefer not to get attached. I have a bad history with doing so.”

She looks at him again, nonplussed in that special way of hers. “I want you to fuck me. Who said anything about attachment?”

There’s another split second of hesitation. His palms hover over her waist, not quite touching. For a drunk man, he’s overthinks quite a bit of variables when doing absolutely anything — while he should be pressing Valkyrie into a mattress and not thinking at all.

“You did say there’s no way for this to ever be anonymous,” he says, and in a great display of juxtaposition to his words, grabs her hips and pulls her flush against him. The leather she’s wearing chafes against his chest and it’s overwhelming for a moment, sends another bout of untamable heat downwards; he wants it off her immediately.

In that moment, it appears to Valkyrie that he’s made up his mind, well and truly.

Still, she asks, for the sake of clarity: “The thing with your sister? That was a joke. You took that to heart?”

Loki makes a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. His fingers, having made quick work of the latches at the side of her vest, struggle to undo the rest of the clasps.

“I’m seeing double,” he mutters, “how the hell do you get this off?”

“When I’m drunk, I don’t,” Valkyrie says honestly, then adds a promise, a sprinkle of motivation: “Put some effort into it, it’ll be worth it.”

With Loki’s hands tragically occupied, she takes a grab for the upper hand again, keeping one palm hooked around the waistband of his trousers, the other going up to tangle and tug at his hair. She pulls his head back, knowing full well it distracts him from his work. It’s almost poetically beautiful, how it frustrates him — her taking him apart without really doing anything.

“She wasn’t even my sister, really,” Loki says out of nowhere, and really, Valkyrie thought they’d closed that topic when they’d removed half the clothes barrier keeping them apart. 

“What?”

He doesn’t stop working on the clasps, diligent as he is — or plain desperate. Still, he fails miserably and Valkyrie figures it’s high time to get the job done herself. Men, in her experience, are far less adept at this particular part than women.

She wraps her hand around his wrist, pulling it away to give her better access. She pins it against the wall to make sure it doesn’t wander until she’s done.

“I’m adopted. She was Thor’s sister, technically.”

Valkyrie pauses, genuinely intrigued. “Really? Weird. I’d say _you_ have more in common with her — your gloomy color scheme, looks in general, the tyrannical tendencies.” She goes back to the last clasp left, though it’s tough work with one free hand and a lust-clouded mind. She scoffs at the absurdity of the whole situation. “Adopted. How does one go about getting adopted by Odin Allfather? Whose kid are you, then? Some knight, a noble? Distant family — cousin? Once removed, twice removed?”

The clasp blessedly clicks free and Valkyrie makes a point to keep Loki’s hand trapped against the wall, him knowing full well he could get her undressed in seconds, and not being able to do anything about it. It’s become an enjoyable pastime, breaking him slowly.

“Do you always do background checks on the people you fuck?”

She shrugs with a tilt of her head and through gritted teeth, Loki offers his answer: “I’m not even Asgardian.”

That gives Valkyrie pause; she looks him up and down (appreciative) as if looking for a telling discrepancy. “You look Asgardian.”

As if on cue, she startles and pulls away the hand she had wrapped around Loki’s. It goes cold beneath her touch, abrupt and unbearable, and she stares at his hand as it goes dark blue from the wrist up. He waggles his fingers like they’re on display.

“No fucking way,” she says then, and barks out a disbelieving laugh. Loki’s hand goes back to normal. “Of course you are. Guess your entire family’s just that fucked up, isn’t it. Gods, I’m glad I got off Asgard before you and Thor came around.”

Loki falters, and Valkyrie, annoyed at his hesitancy, takes both his wrists in her hands and guides them to her waist. The idea is clear: get her clothes off her before they both lose their minds.

She gets her point across. Loki wastes no time in pulling the vest over her head, and lets it clatter to the ground in a mess of buckles and leather straps. She kicks it out of the way and bodily yanks Loki down into another kiss, before he does something as stupid as falter yet again.

He bites at her lip, eager to give as good as he gets in the violence of it all; and she pulls at his hair to remind him of his place. He feels hot against her bare chest and it’s almost enough to quit the games, and whirl them around to shove him onto the bed not ten paces away. But there’s a single other thought nagging at the back of her head in light of the most recent revelation.

She breaks the kiss but doesn't move away, holding Loki in place.

“Is that a glamour, then? You right now? You’re what, a shapeshifter?”

Loki hums in hasty confirmation and makes to kiss her again, and she leans out of the way purely to fuck with him.

“So you can turn into a woman.”

Loki's head snaps up and he regards her seriously. “Would you prefer that?”

It’s an intriguing thought, even more so with the admission that Loki’s willing to go along with it if she so desires. Still, they’ve made enough progress to finish the way they started. She grins, openly suggestive.

“Perhaps another time.”

The jarring realization dawns on them both: the slight slip, the promise of similar encounters in the future. Naturally, basking in forced anonymity, neither lets it show they’ve noticed the implication.

Their lips meet again and it’s beyond hungry. One step ahead of her, Loki wraps his arms around her waist and picks her up; carries her the few feet towards the bed like she weighs nothing and drops her amidst the sheets. He lingers over her, legs on either side of her hips, close but not quite touching, dizzy with the desperation but not yet kissing her.

Valkyrie thinks, right then, that his hesitancy makes perfect sense in context of their every interaction since they first met. They do know each other too well to never speak of this again; the risk of attachment weighs heavy in the air, pressing down onto their shoulders, and Loki’s terrified of what could happen.

She drags her fingernails across his back, down to the waistband of his trousers and further on. 

“Don’t worry so much. We won’t remember anything in the morning.”

 

/

 

Loki wakes up, and remembers everything.

The first thought he has, bright and all-consuming, is one he apparently speaks aloud. 

“ _Shit_.”

It’s a beautifully concise summary of the events of last night, and the spark of sudden anxiety settling in the pit of Loki’s stomach. 

He blinks at the expanse of the apartment, even dingier and more dilapidated than it’d seemed in the dark. An odd sort of gray light filters in through the windows, the air on Knowhere so polluted, and the nearest sun so far the sky looks like the aftermath of a dirty explosion.

A few ideas flicker through his mind — he could pretend to be asleep until Valkyrie awoke and kicked him out (he wouldn’t have to take any responsibility), or (less likely) he could grow a pair and work through the impending bout of awkward pillow talk. Ultimately, if all else failed, he could still make a run for it, before she even stirred.

Like a timer has gone off, she stirs.

Loki turns his head, grimacing at the strands of hair stuck to his face. He’s too lazy and loose limbed to fix it.

He’s met with Valkyrie’s eyes, alluring and dark and undeniably wide open. 

He asks, even though he knows the answer. “I’m assuming you forgot nothing.”

She twists her lips into a pouty grimace. “Unfortunate,” she agrees, and Loki can’t tell if she means it.

Judging by the look on her face when Loki lets his uncertainty show, she’s most definitely making him the butt of another one of her jokes. Typically, in the event of Loki getting poked fun of so nonchalantly and repeatedly, he would get up and leave, perhaps set something on fire along the way for the sake of wreaking destruction in his wake — he’d done it on Asgard often enough. In her case, however, he’s mildly surprised that he doesn’t mind it; which is in itself an inexplicable feeling.

“Good morning to you too,” she adds, when it becomes apparent that Loki’s not going to express any sort of cordiality. The final, worn string holding together any delusions that this was a one-time endeavor snaps in two, and Loki huffs a laugh.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he hovers over Valkyrie, and kisses her like the moment isn’t going anywhere. It’s a greeting, through actions rather than words. She lifts her head up from the bed to meet Loki, pushing away the errant strands of his hair that get in the way, and makes it abundantly clear this isn’t the last time they’ll find themselves in such a position.

Loki, naively, relinquishes control, and she uses his lapse in judgement to push him backwards, and takes advantage of the momentum to knock him flat on his back; she straddles him, palms pressed against his shoulders to keep him down. There’s a dark bruise high on his left cheekbone that hadn’t bloomed until now, a nasty reminder of his unpleasant run in at the bar the previous evening.

“How sentimental of you,” she murmurs, hanging over him just out of reach. “I should have known you’re a secret romantic, deep down.”

Loki looks blatantly insulted. She feels the muscles beneath his skin tense at her words, and asks: “How are you possibly offended by that?”

“Mm, most bedmates, on the rare occasions I stick around long enough to see the sun rise, tell me to fuck off and never come back. They especially don’t — kiss back.”

Valkyrie gives the admission a moment to sink in, and presses her lips chastely against his before sitting back on her heels.

“Stick around for breakfast, then. First time for everything.”

She gives him a final, daring look, and climbs over onto the other side, and off the bed. The air is stale in the apartment, freezing with the lack of working heat installations, and dusty beyond belief.

Valkyrie makes a beeline for Loki’s shirt, discarded by the door, entirely too lazy to bother buckling herself into her too-complicated armor. It’s a two in one — she stays comfortable, and Loki remains half undressed for the remaining duration of his stay.

“I don’t have anything _romantic_ in the fridge, though — ” she pads to the kitchen, and she can feel Loki’s eyes on her, tracing her every move, “ — I can offer you tap water, if the plumbing works, some dried — whatever fruit this used to be, or more liquor.”

She turns, and eyes Loki’s sprawled out position on the bed. She was correct in assuming he was watching her, as he continues to do so now. She's momentarily caught off guard by the borderline hint of affection in the soft look of his eyes.

“Are you just fucked out and indolent, or thoroughly hungover? How’s that work with Jotuns?”

A twinge of panic visibly flashes through his entire being at the comprehension that she knows far more about him than any of the people he usually takes to bed. Funny, how mere hours ago he was the one hoping to get to know her, not divulge secrets the other way around.

“No, it’s — quite similar to yours, the tolerance,” he says carefully. It’s evident he’s never talked with anyone about this before. “I grew up with Thor: drinking was as common an activity as throwing spears at things. I never really got a chance to consider being different.” He pauses, loses himself in an idle thought. “That could explain, really, why I never had the capacity to drink as much as the rest of them.”

Valkyrie blinks. “So you didn’t know? What you were?”

Somewhere on the path to anonymity, they’d come across a fork in the road and taken a drastically wrong turn. Loki’s never disclosed any of this to anyone — not to Thor, not his mother — until now, to a complete stranger. Granted, one who seems to understand the allure of locking everything so deep down it stops to hurt, and growing an impenetrable shell around the feelings no one deserves to get to again. 

“No. Not until — fairly recently,” he says. He’s honest. He doesn’t feel the need to lie to her, to spin her a sugar coated version of reality. 

She raises her eyebrows like she’s hardly surprised at the absurdity of it all. “Fucked up, the lot of you.”

This, Loki doesn't take offense at, because he knows it to be true.

Valkyrie turns and walks around the bar, into the cramped kitchen. Most of the overhead cabinets are in one piece, more or less, and she tugs the first one open in search of something resembling a glass — hell knows she’s too lazy to walk all the way to the couch and rinse the ones they’d used last night.

It takes a bit of fumbling around but she manages to find a single metal cup, hardly rusted. She tries the tap. The pipes beneath the sink groan like they’re thousands of years old, and she somewhat expects an onslaught of mud to come splashing from the faucet, only to blink in surprise at the resulting trickle of perfectly clear water.

She holds the cup under the tap, dazed by the ringing of the water hitting the metal interior. She’s not hungover, not the way she knows other species to be in the early mornings, but there’s a lulling buzz in the back of her head, slipping her into a trace she has to fight to snap out of.

“Val.”

Loki’s quiet when he wants to be, and she should have known better than to let him out of her sight for longer than a minute.

She shuts off the faucet and lifts the cup to her lips, turning as she drinks.

There’s a pang of bitter acknowledgment that blossoms in her chest when she sets her eyes on Loki. She should have suspected that the shapeshifting asshole could magic himself a new set of clothes instead of bothering to collect the ones from the previous day.

He stands before her in full leathers, not unlike the day they first met.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I should go,” he says.

It’s different from all the times she’s heard those same words from other people, from men and women alike hastily retreating from whatever bedroom they’d spent the night in. 

Loki says it like there’s a hidden meaning to the words, a second half of the sentence that lingers in the air, unsaid but apparent. Valkyrie knows enough of him to understand — he lives in his head, and his thoughts grab hold of him if he doesn’t take the time to force them into submission. 

Simply speaking, he needs some time to himself before opening up again.

Valkyrie nods, and doesn’t move to kiss him; she pointedly saves that for next time.

Instead, she says, the conviction behind the words bold and unwavering: “I’ll see you around, then.”

“You will.”

**Author's Note:**

> working title: valkyrie drags loki for the duration of 23 pages of a .txt document 
> 
> i actually wrote an alternate ending where loki takes them to midgard for breakfast and they end up in mcdonalds but that uhhh didn't make the final cut [edit: now available in the [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12665583)]
> 
> hit me up: [twitter](http://twitter.com/finaiizer) & [tumblr](http://esmesqualor.tumblr.com)


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